War
by Kara's Aunty
Summary: Glimpses of each of the five Battles of Beleriand, depicted in vignettes. Chapter 1: The doom of Denethor, son of Lenwë.


**Disclaimer:**The Silmarillion is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, estate, etc. I have written this for my own enjoyment. I am making absolutely no profit from my use of his wonderful creations nor is any breach of copyright intended.

**Credit: **En dot wikipedia dot org, Encyclopedia of Arda, Tuckborough dot net

**Resolve**

_Curse Thingol in his vanity! His call to arms has brought ruin to my people!_

Such were the thoughts of Denethor of Ossiriand as the last of his kin fell when an arrow pierced his throat. The dying elf's gurgles rang dreadfully in the king's ears and he watched in silent horror as his companion-in-arms thrashed for a few seconds before falling still forever. He now stood alone upon Amon Ereb amidst the scattered corpses of his nearest kin, awaiting his own doom.

How his ally was faring further north remained a mystery, but it seemed to Denethor at least that the might of Morgoth was an unstoppable force which would soon sweep Beleriand without challenge, bringing ruination and death to all that was fair and vital.

With naught to shield him and no defence but his sword, Denethor circled the spot, warily eyeing the merciless Orcs who had massacred their way through the wall of elves who had fought so valiantly to defend their king. Those same Orcs who were now swarming their way up the hill toward him ...

His heart banged loudly against his ribs and the sour taste of defeat welled in his mouth as several heavy-shod archers paused to take aim at him.

Why had he not thought to arm his warriors better? Many might have lived that now lay silent around him, their lifeblood staining the grass upon which he stood!

Yet even as Denethor posed the question of himself, he knew the answer: he had believed, at that time, that crude orcish weapons and brute force would never prevail against the superior fighting skills of the elves - even were they armed with naught more than swords.

Fool! His arrogance had doomed them all!

_Forgive me, my people, I have failed you. Had I but taken time to prepare for evil days to come! Had I but approached the Naugrim smiths for mail and helms akin to those wrought for Thingol's armoury! Instead I languished under the illusion of eternal peace offered in his realm, and for this you will pay dearly. Peace, however blissful, is never eternal; it is never more than the calm before the storm. And when this storm approached, all too eager was I to answer the call for aid from one who had named me as kin long lost._

And the King of the Nandor had indeed marched readily when Thingol called, for kin was kin, and he could do no differently. But where now was the King of Doriath when Denethor had need of him? What hope had he now of anything other than the swift death Angband's black darts would soon bring him?

A sudden shout shook him from his final ruminations.

"Stay the arrows!" cried the swarthy captain of the Orcs, his black eyes glinting menacingly. Denethor stilled. "Let the elf be delivered of the more intimate death it deserves."

The Orc captain brandished his great spear high, and this was met with a chorus of dark approval from his foul subordinates. All around the lone elf bows were abandoned in favour of spears and blades, and evil voices were raised in greedy anticipation of the bloody feast to come.

Denethor's fair face hardened.

So be it. If they would deny him the courtesy of a swift death, then he would not stand meekly upon the spot like a spring lamb awaiting slaughter. No; Denethor, King of the Nandor of Ossiriand, would take slaughter to them first ere he fell! And though all hope was lost for him, he was at last glad that Thingol had not appeared: that may well have spelled _his_ doom also. As it was, Denethor still had hope that the High King's armoury had spared enough of Thingol's own warriors to defeat Morgoth's forces utterly, ensuring peace once again for the remnant Nandor in the Land of Seven Rivers.

With this thought in mind, he bent swiftly to retrieve his recently fallen comrade's sword and, when he rose, immediately launched himself at the leering orcish captain with a cry so fey and terrible, it stilled the Enemy in its tracks.

For a while, at least …

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX **

_Author's Note_: My first attempt at the rather complex and daunting world of Silmarillion fanfic. This interpretation of Denethor's death might very well be complete and utter mince, but the description of him and his final moments was rather vague in the book. Be kind!

Kara's Aunty ;)


End file.
